


Peter Parker's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

by neverfaltering



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Fainting, Gen, Hospital, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Iron Dad, Iron dad and Spider son, IronDad and SpiderSon, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Procedures, Passing Out, Protective Tony Stark, Stabbing, Violence, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2018, Whumptober 2019, spider son
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 01:00:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20826743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverfaltering/pseuds/neverfaltering
Summary: It's dark in New York, and Peter Parker can't find it in himself to call Mr. Stark after he gets stabbed.





	Peter Parker's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Peter Parker was having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. If that’s how the book title went. If he was being honest with himself, his stream of consciousness was gradually slowing down. It probably had something to do with the fresh stab wound near his right abdomen.

He glanced down and felt another wave of dizziness strike him, slowing his senses. Blood never got easier for him to look at. He knew he was stumbling in some sort of direction that resembled his route to Stark Tower, but as the night wore on, the lines and road signs started blurring.

He was pretty upset with himself about it, too. He had his attacker on the ropes, but out of nowhere, his sidekick came along and Peter felt a sudden sharpness and then himself crumpling to the ground. He should have been more alert.

It was probably around midnight, judging by the darkness of the sky and the small number of passerby. He must have looked like a terrible sight, his left arm clutched over a growing red patch in his suit.

New York was pretty at night. A lot prettier than the day, which was sort of ironic, because all the evil stuff took place when it got dark. But it was undeniable. The stars twinkled bright, the air got cooler, and it felt like a blanket enveloped you.

Drowsiness was starting to overtake him; there seemed to be no end to his route to Stark Tower. He didn’t know if it was because he kept looking upwards, and the stars were putting him to sleep, or if the healing was just taking a while. Either way, he found himself slowing down, until he had to stop eventually. He found a nearby patch of grass and slowly lowered himself to the ground, wincing as he went. It was starting to feel like a fire had ignited in the wound. The adrenaline was wearing off, and Peter found that the longer he lay there, the more excruciating the pain became.

As he lay under the stars, Peter contemplated calling Mr. Stark on his watch. It would be a first, for sure. Of course, this was the reason Mr. Stark had given it to him in the first place, shooing away his thank you’s with_ no worries, kid. Just don’t hesitate to call, alright? I know your self-sacrificing habits, and I don’t want you to think about them before you make a call, okay? I’m always going to be close by._ And Peter had just nodded his thanks, because Mr. Stark spoke from his heart sometimes, and when he did, it was always so heavy and full of love that Peter could never find words that he could sufficiently reply with. So he had nodded, and Mr. Stark had strapped the watch to his wrist very gently, as if he was afraid of breaking him, despite knowing Peter’s strengths most thoroughly. And he had made sure that it wasn’t too tight on Peter before he explained the dozen other features the watch came with, and Peter sat and listened to him talk for an hour about what he had done inside this tiny device.

The pain was becoming almost unbearable now. Peter’s fingers ghosted over the “call” button on the watch, but something nagged in him and prevented him from actually clicking it. Perhaps it was his ever-growing fear of constantly being the damsel in distress, or never being worthy enough. Whatever it was, it forced Peter to lay on the ground for a lot longer than he should have, bleeding out onto grass that was green and never should have been red.

He decided to start getting up. The sooner he could find help, the better.

As he slowly inched upwards, his body screamed in protest and every bone felt like it was on fire. He could feel sweat clinging to his forehead. Perhaps it was dripping down his back, too. Or maybe that was blood. He found that a numbness was taking over him. He couldn’t find it in himself to care about anything. Not the blood, not the pain, not the suit, not being Spider-Man. Usually, he could motivate himself by chanting a silly mantra like _you’re Spider-man! SPIDER-MAN! Can you believe it? You’ve got this!_ but it seemed impossible now. There was no ounce of him that felt any emotion besides a very comforting tiredness that was slowly but steadily overtaking his senses and leaving him unconscious on grass that was green and should never have been red.

–

Someone was pressing on his stomach, and it hurt like nothing had ever hurt before.

“Please,” Peter cried. “It hurts, I-I can’t. I can’t do it anymore. Please don’t. Please…”

His eyes were shut, but he didn’t want to open them. Whoever was doing this was hurting him, and Peter didn’t want to hurt anymore. He didn’t want to look into another soulless person’s eyes and see the urge to torture him more. He’d had enough for the night.

“Peter. Peter, it’s me, Tony. Peter, Peter. It’s just me. Just me and Bruce. He’s going to help you. You like Bruce, don’t you? You like him better than Iron-Man, for sure. Right, Peter? Peter-”

Peter opened his eyes. Heck, there was nothing he had to lose. If this was a hallucination, then it was a comforting one. He wanted Mr. Stark to never stop talking.

Peter cracked open his eyes. He was in a white room. So white. Everything was white, except-

Tony stood in front of him, his eyes bloodshot. Everything about him seemed red. The Iron-Man suit, his eyes, his cheeks, and his hands. He reached for Peter’s hand and squeezed. It was warm. Nice. Comforting. This was a good dream. Peter squeezed back. It was exhausting.

“I’m right here, kid. We’re going to fix you right up, okay? Don’t worry. You’re okay now.”

“Is this a dream, Mr. Stark?”

“No, Pete. Do you meet Iron-Man in your dreams?”

Well, he was right about that. Peter’s dreams were mostly muddled, dark, and frightening. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a pleasant dream. And he certainly didn’t remember the last time Iron-Man had showed up in them.

Wait. Something was off.

“I didn’t call for you, though.”

“Kid, when Karen doesn’t send out an update for three hours on your activity, then I’ll know, okay? Another feature, if you will. I swear this is real, Pete. I swear on it.”

Peter felt almost okay now. The pain was slowly ebbing away. He could feel hands prodding the wound, probably Bruce’s, and he could feel blood running everywhere, but he felt better.

“Okay, Mr. Stark. Okay. Please don’t let go of my hand, Mr. Stark. I’m scared. Everything hurts.”

“I won’t, kid, I won’t.” And then he felt Tony’s hands covering his. The light faded slowly, and Peter let sleep overcome him.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading :) would love a kudos or a comment ten times more !!! im on tumblr @ahoyscoop :)


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